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Xiomara
The sun sets like melted gold spilling across the horizon, soft light draping the hills behind Zasha’s house in warm, lazy hues. I stand barefoot on the porch, my dress rippling gently in the evening breeze, my eyes drifting across the garden where Maksim is chasing fireflies with squeals of pure joy.
It still feels surreal.
Six months ago, I wasn’t sure we’d survive—let alone end up here. Safe. Together. Whole.
The screen door creaks open behind me, and I don’t even have to look to know it’s him. I feel Zasha before I hear him—his presence anchors me the way it always has, quiet but absolute.
His arms circle around my waist, warm and secure, and he rests his chin on my shoulder. “You’ve been quiet,” he murmurs.
I lean back into him, my fingers sliding over his forearm. “Just thinking.”
He kisses the top of my head. “Dangerous habit.”
I smile, a soft one. “Good memories, this time.”
Because that’s what they are now. Not ghosts. Not nightmares. Just memories with jagged edges that have finally begun to dull.
The laughter of our son echoes in the air, and I follow the sound with my eyes. He’s bigger now. Braver. He sleeps through the night without waking in fear. He’s even started calling Zasha papa—a whisper at first, unsure and testing, until it became steady and proud.
And my heart hasn’t stopped swelling since.
Zasha’s breath shifts. He’s pulling back slightly. I turn around, curious—only to find him lowering himself onto one knee.
My breath catches.
He pulls a small box from his pocket and opens it.
Inside, a ring sparkles like fire caught in stone—diamond, oval-cut, set in silver that matches the bracelet he gave me thatnight. The night he brought the past back, only to rewrite it with something stronger.
“Mara,” he says, voice low and steady, eyes never leaving mine. “You were never just my wife on paper. You were always mine. You and Maksim—you’re my family, my reason, my future. I don’t want to pretend anymore. No more contracts. No more distance. Just truth. Just us.”
Tears sting my eyes before I can stop them.
“Yes,” I whisper, nodding so fast I start to laugh through the tears. “Yes, yes, of course, yes.”
He slides the ring on my finger, and I throw my arms around him as the porch blurs with movement—Maksim running toward us, curious and grinning as Zasha scoops him up too, holding us both in one strong, unshakable hold.
This is the life I never dared to dream of.
And the miracle?
It didn’t stop with us.
My mother—my sweet, stubborn, quiet warrior of a mother—turned out to be a perfect match for my father. When she volunteered to be tested, we all held our breath. And when the results came back, and she didn’t hesitate to offer him her kidney, something inside me shattered and healed all at once.
The transplant was a success.
My father walks again. Laughs again. Lives again.
He even danced with my mother on the patio last week—slow, clumsy steps that made them both laugh like teenagers. I cried in Zasha’s arms that night, overwhelmed by the quiet grace of healing. Of redemption.
So yes, we went through hell.
But we came out of it stronger. Together.
I look down at the ring on my hand, then at the two people who have anchored my world. Zasha presses a kiss to my cheek, and Maksim wiggles between us, demanding to be let down again.
As the sun finally dips below the trees, I breathe in deeply and let it settle into me.
The worst is behind us.
And everything ahead—every sunrise, every whisper in the dark, every new memory—is ours to claim.
Forever.